The bad behavior of Fashion week and poseurs is here in earnest.
Nothing breeds more contempt than a doorman/bitch sneering from behind their safety rags velvet rope as you stand there waiting to be politely acknowledged and afforded your entry to perceived paradise.
Last night, this dilettante at large was personally invited by XXXX Magazine’s Indira Cesarine for what he perceived to be a genuine polite invitation to her journal’s fete a fete at de rigeur snot spot Provocateur in anticipation of NY Fashion week. What followed was hardly in this author’s opinion was polite or good manners and perhaps if one wants to make bones about it an example of bad form, childish dispositions and some degree of malice. But then again who can blame a bitch who thinks the world is in the business of licking the muck off her high heels.
At approximately 11.10pm last night I arrived in good cheer, a particular jaundice to my steps at hot boite Provocateur. Upon arriving the door crew, which included 2-3 gamine looking women desperately looking at the reflection of themselves in the moon and 2 particularly muscular men who one assumes devour little children with their Earl Grey Tea in the afternoon (I on the other hand only devour marmalade crumpets with my tea in the afternoon thank your very much) looked at me with a practiced reticent of ‘go fxxk’ yourself countenance.
That said, I once again announced my name, calmly looked at my mismatched socks and smiled to the best of my ability as I waited for the gamines of Hudson Terror to open the gates of milk and honey. The gates to be sure did not open. Once again, slightly agitated I tried to explain to the door team who I was ( I know it’s tacky- and I bet you’re a hedge fund trader too) and that in fact at the very moment I had one of my writers and photographers snapping happily away at the happy people dunking marshmallows in their vodka goblets. This it seems elicited no reaction. Well, I lie- it did elicit a reaction- a group yawn. Oh well.
At that moment I did what any harried editor in chief would do- I got on my cell phone and started texting my photographer to reach out to Ms Cesarine, whom I understood to be personal friends.
Whilst I texted, a mileu of fashion insiders began congregating at the door, which forced the door crew to moan in dismay. Most of them were told that the list was closed and some of them despite being told the list was closed were afforded entry.
At this stage my photographer assured me that Ms Cezarine would now come and collect me.
Wonderful. So I thought.
So I waited. And waited. Waited. A very long time. But I was happy to be alive and to be honest I was rather proud of my mismatched socks. But hark where was Ms Cesarine?
Thank you for this.
I have worked for this woman as an intern at her so-called fashion magazine and it is absolutely ridiculous. It is a magazine entirely run by unpaid interns and one royal bitch who thinks the world revolves around her. Indira Cesarine needs to be a bit more humble and appreciative of the students/graduates who dedicate their time to her waste of space.
I assure you I had no idea you were outside. In any case enough is enough, I do my best to accommodate and entertain all of my guests, and to be honest go above and beyond any other editor in chief I know. I don’t want to go into details online, but just ask a few people why I’m moving to Europe…
Apology accepted- but Iet’s be frank, you knew I was there and according to David, the photographer you were coming out to collect me a dozen times. But who knows what that reallu means?
As for the tears, they have all dried up, but I am sure if one looks closely they will find a few wet ones still hovering by the sidewalk.
The issue Ms. Cesarine is that your behavior and that of your crew is emblematic of an elitist snot bag mentality typifying the ethic of the nightlife hustlers in club land. I am aware of how things work in this town and am not completely clueless. I recognize that you would not have a party for your magazine and charge people $20 per cocktail. Nevertheless, to leave an invited journalist outside with a proverbial dick in his hand while you were inside whacking off, metaphorically speaking, your more important guests illustrates that perhaps that a class in manners may have been bypassed in your time at Choate Rosemary Hall. No I do not know you on a personal level and willingly respect and acknowledge that you are a talented fashion photographer, in addition to being a rather fine looking feminine creature yourself. Moreover, I also more than willingly acknowledge that your branding as the female Bruce Webber/Herb Ritts is truly rather brilliant angle, as I am sure many of your Abercrombie boys in their underwear may be a little more full in the package with you behind the lens than a chubby guy that resembles Santa Claus. Kudos. I was going to go onto Tube 8 to find my favorite video to relieve myself but I will go instead to XXXX Magazine. Besos mamasita.
I apologize out the problematic door situation at Provocatuer – I assure you if I knew you were outside I would have come out to get you, but no one informed me! David actually mentioned to me today what happened, and all I can say is that I am sorry to hear they wouldn’t let you in! Of course I would love to have had you there. the fact is they didn’t let in a lot of my guests, and I have been hearing all day from a variety of people including Vp’s from LVMH and many other personal friends who were denied entrance. Those girls are completely clueless, but it was also impossible for me to stand outside during the entire event to make sure everyone I personally invited got in. I’m am going to forward your article to the owners and PR’s of the space, as they should know how irritating it is to throw a private event and your guests can’t get in.
In response Christopher London – it was an open bar, not $20.00 a drink, and just because you happened upon my blog that I rarely update as I never have time does not give you the right to throw me in the category of all the rude bitches out there… in any case, I can’t be bothered to respond further to someone who doesn’t even know me, and throws a link up like that as if he has some kind of special information – it does not deserve any more response… do your homework.
The club scene in New York has been completely and utterly busted for so long; it is like an aphrodisiac for necrophilliac’s. Yale grad and prolific commentator Isaiah Wilner cogently wrote about its demise before skipping town. It is so horribly busted that the only way dilettante’s like Indira Cesarine (http://indiracesarine.com/blog/) can get press from a blogger is if the ridicule, embarrass, frustrate and deny access to a percentage of the population that thrives on the insecurity of gaining acceptance by the utterly vacuous so that whatever whoring goes on inside somehow seems relevant, as they stand outside begging “please let me know I am worthy to spend $20 per watered down cocktail and $350 for a $40 bottle of vodka. There is literally nothing of import that happens in Club Land in the City anymore, not that there ever was. The best thing one can do is let these over glorified ass-holes write about their own exploits in a veritable circle jerk fashion where they can cream all over themselves and lick their own finger tips and mutter “how tasty”, perhaps too tasty to share with another. The infamous AL Goldstein of Midnight Blue fame would have said, “Indira Cesarine, F__k You, I have no desire to write about people masturbating and bathing in their own Narcissism.”
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